Crossroads by Gwanath Dagnir

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When One Door Closes

This chapter chronologically precedes the first.
::flashback fingers::

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CIRCA 546, F.A. – OSSIRIAND

 

The adults had grown more tense and withdrawn throughout the year, in the way that reeds become brittle when the river goes dry out of season.

The twins made a game to study this change in open secrecy -overlooked from high perches like peering crows, ignored from silly hideaways like curious mice- all while maintaining the outward visage of blithe children so as not to spook their prey.

Now tents were kept sealed even during daylight, where hushed talk of scouting parties and doubled patrols filtered through, and after nightfall, subdued camaraderie circled the campfires with the old mournful song and a new sense of trepidation.

Eventually so too did the outskirts of their encampment seem on edge, its animals quiet and skittish, its leaves recoiled as though anticipating some storm to come.
Picking their way out of that dreary wood one day, the twins returned to the barricade emptyhanded, not a mushroom or berry or rabbit in sight.

“Maglor has been searching for you,” said an elf posted to guard the perimeter. He stood waiting for them in front of the forbidden passage that they exploited (a small break in the column of logs that they finally struggled to squeeze through after many years of slow growth).

They shrugged at his familiar cautionary tone and tried to pass him undeterred.

“Come or go that way again and we will all three be made to regret it,” he said sterner, and moved to block their path.

“Oh – is he very angry?” asked one brother.

“Maglor? No, he is very worried. But of Maedhros’ mood, I dare not imagine. The whole camp is astir – and I have no wish to be found at fault for your absence!”

The other brother sighed, realizing the severity. “Very well. Make this easiest for yourself, then.”

“Sorry,” said the first. They considered any guard friendly who made a habit of looking the wrong direction at convenient times to enable their escapades. “Shall we feign resistance to help demonstrate your loyalty? Or you can carry me upside down by my ankle if you like, it’s fun but I will pretend to despair.”

The guard raised his eyes in a quick bid for patience. “Just comply, Half-elven.” He picked them up by the waist like sacks of grain cinched to each hip, one facing front and the other behind. 
“Remember not to giggle this time, you scoundrels,” he groused as the gate drew open before them.

From their bobbing perspective, the twins noted that the particularly harried scurrying of elves around them did not cease upon their arrival, nor even pause at their passing.

“Is some trouble afoot?” said the backward-facing twin, watching the gate being hastily barred behind them.

“Look, they are distributing the arrow reserves,” said his twin, straining his neck to see elves climbing the watchpost ladders laden with bound bundles wide as ancient trees.

“Be silent,” said their captor, playing his role dutifully.

The inside of Maedhros’ private abode was unnaturally quiet, an eerie contrast to whatever fervor had seized the rest of the encampment. At the threshold, the elf unburdened himself in one ungentle motion. The twins let themselves fall to the ground in graceless heaps for dramatic effect. “As requested: two wayward Half-elves. They are unharmed, lord. Anything else?”

“Nothing that you possess,” said Maedhros without turning. He stood by the far wall where a pot hung over the cooking fire, peering into the brew as he stirred it.

At the table nearby, Maglor stood up from the bench but stayed put, his expression a conflict of injury and relief. “Where were they?”

The elf shifted. “It’s true as you suspected, they had gone beyond the fence.”

This attracted Maedhros’ full attention. He turned, a billow of steam rising behind his crimson head, and even with a soup ladle in his only hand he seemed menacing as a cobra posed to strike. “Children. How did you get beyond the fence?”

“Magic!” said one twin, springing to his feet and in his mind, to the rescue of the guard. “But he broke our spell and it cannot be cast again. Only the very best guards command such power.”

Maedhros’ eyes narrowed. “Which one are you?” The boy tightened his lips, and Maedhros nodded. “Sit down, Elros. Him too,” he pointed the ladle at Elrond still playing dead on the floor and returned to his chore. “And Mahto…”

The guard stopped with himself half-closed in the doorway to look back.

“See that whatever breach in the fence is repaired. Straightaway.”

“Yes, lord.” Leaving with a hard glance, Mahto warned the twins not to test this man again, as they sheepishly took their places at the table.

Maglor had assumed his customary pose of anguished defeat, resting forehead against fingertips as he shook his head, helpless. “Such danger you invite upon yourselves,” he said, his beautiful voice weak. “Such turmoil I endure by your doing. Either you deem that I deserve to suffer so, or you underestimate what horrors prowl in the wild, what a dreadful fate you tempt.”

The twins sat quiet – they knew well enough the peril on both sides of these walls.

“Hearken to me, you twain,” said Maedhros, watching a spoonful of stew as it cooled under his words. “Fourteen are your years of age – old enough to know better than this mischief, thus old enough to pay a price for disobedience. The next time you wander unpermitted, know that punishment shall follow.”

“What could be worse than your cooking…” Elros murmured.

Maedhros took a sip. “Hm. It could use herbs. Next time be useful and scavenge some to mitigate your trespass.”

Elros crossed his arms.

“We saw no herbs, actually,” said Elrond. “Not even a bird met our path in all that time. The wood is stagnant, it seems very strange.”

“The whole camp is acting strange,” said Elros. “Or suppose we are too young to notice.”

Maedhros went still and straight, his own unique pose of thought. Maglor stood and joined him by the pot, pretending to assess dinner while his fingers drummed a musical scale on his thigh. “Perhaps it is time,” he said. At length Maedhros nodded. He came to his chair at the table head and sat unmoving until Maglor served four steaming bowls and a plate with stale flatbread to the board.

“What you perceive is not without cause. A great host of Elves has been marching east along the Adram, and they have taken watch upon Amon Ereb. Lately they mobilize, it seems, in preparation to continue North.”

The twins waited for more, while Maedhros took to his supper in silence.

Elrond finally dared to speak the name, “Is it Gil-galad?”

Maedhros snorted. “The child king has no host to call upon such as this that has been described by our scouts.”

“May we go out to see them? I can sneak unseen like a Green-elf, they taught me how.”

“No,” Maglor said, already using his tone of finality. “It is forbidden. And furthermore, you are not to mingle with the Green Elves.”

“What! But why?”

“Because they have traded our location in this wood for some boon unknown. They are no longer trustworthy,” said Maedhros. “Besides, they make busy to retreat to the foothills – I do not expect to meet their ilk again for trade or friendship whilst this Age lasts. No, our gates are closed and may reopen only upon my word and under strict watch. We must be ever more vigilant now, and you must obey! But no more talk of this tonight. Eat.”

“It’s good,” said Maglor. “Thank you.”

“It’s bad,” said Maedhros. “You’re welcome.”

 

As it happened, the gates would be opened before the next moon.

By then, the elves’ heightened vigilance had become commonplace. When the twins were plucked from their daily chores one day and ushered into Maglor’s tent, they complied boredly – many false alarms had resulted in such precautions for naught. But this time, they watched out of a slit in the flap between Mahtos’ legs as the gate was unbarred and pulled back. The elves moved stiffly to form a broad pathway from the entrance as a mounted warrior rode into view. His armor glinted like lightning in the sunlight, and his white steed regaled with decorated tact tiptoed into an elegant halt as though to demonstrate such majesty. The Elf stabbed the staff of a great standard that he bore into the ground, then dismounted in one smooth motion. He stood taller than most while he surveyed the mixed expressions that surrounded him. 
As Maedhros’ valet approached, he handed over a longsword sheathed in an ornately jeweled scabbard.
“Hear ye! This blade is for my own protection traveling in the wild – no harm shall come to any of you or to your lords by my hand upon this errand, in exchange for the same guarantee.”

“Keep your pretty sword, Harndur,” called Maedhros’ voice. He too walked into view from the other end of the path of elves. They spread out as these two came face to face, as if to create an arena. “We here have succumbed to disgrace and much worse besides, but if nothing else you should believe that our word is trustworthy to a fault. Finarfin’s terms to parley under protection of truce have already been accepted.”

The one called Harndur took off his gleaming helm and shook out a cascade of golden braids. “We received no response to our missive at all.”

“You received your messenger back in one piece.”

With his face uncovered, Harndur’s annoyance manifested plain as daybreak. “Yes well, you are very scary indeed, and so brave to menace a King’s Herald sent to you in good faith – but I am in haste. Shall we confer here in the open and give your men some purpose to serve by listening? They do not seem busy making this place less of a hovel anyway.” He looked around pointedly.

Maedhros looked as well – toward where an outburst of children’s giggles rang out and quickly quieted. His face was grim. He spoke lowly, “We have but one purpose, and you know what it is.”

Harndur laughed as one unashamed and guiltless – no small mockery, considering the present company. “Ai! As if we could forget! Even had the Half-elven Eärendil not traversed great peril and hardship to come remind us. Ah – but much has transpired in Valinor since your banishment from those lands.” He pointed up at the sky – something about the simple gesture seemed to upset even Maedhros’ resolve. “His blessed ascension fills the Elves of Aman with wonder and inspiration. But to the dispossessed, perhaps it serves a different reminder: the Silmaril that he bears will be forevermore beyond your grasp, Oath be damned.”

Maedhros stepped back, and the surrounding elves stirred, disquieted. At length he spread his arm, half-turning. “Maglor will join us to speak in private.”

Harndur followed his lead while measuring the camp with bright and piercing eyes.

After the door to Maehdros’ abode creaked shut, the twins wasted no time to begin their work on Mahtos’ nerves. They plead for fresh air, for exercise, for sustenance, and to visit the privy, repeatedly, until the last request became a true need. Later, they stood marveling at Harndur’s horse, who grew quickly curious to snuffle at these unknown creatures. Mahto turned from eyeing the intrigue of whatever transpired behind Maedhros’ closed door to remind them periodically it was past time to go back undercover, per Maglor’s command during uncertain circumstances. They listened attentively until his distraction bewitched him again.

“It confounds me, what that elf said about our father,” said Elros. “I think even Maedhros was speechless. Maedhros is never speechless.”

“I know. Can you believe he’s only a herald! I thought he must be a great King of some fair place, so fine is his raiment.”

“He mentioned a king – well, of course there’s a king if he’s a herald. But I wonder who! Not Gil-galad, we know that already.”

“Boys,” Mahto barked. “Enough. It is time to go.” He remained transfixed upon the door and the boys returned to each other.
By now the horse had taken to keeping the children nudged under its breast. They stood there sheltered with their backs against its long legs.

“He is one of the High Elves certainly, not Moriquendi like the Green Elves.”

“These also are High Elves,” said Elrond, tilting his head to indicate the elves returned to their usual business throughout the camp.

“Yes, but I mean he is not… dimmed.”

“Oh Valar, come here, quick, quick!” Mahto spun and lunged to grab the children, his movement too threatening for the horse to ignore coming from a stranger in a strange place. It whipped its head round and jammed the elf in his center with its armored crest, throwing him back easily. Mahto cursed and struggled to regain his footing, but too late.

Suddenly Maglor appeared amidst the chaos as if he rode in on the wind of a storm. One twin had leapt aside where Mahto landed while the other darted opposite from the horse, now spooked by Maglor’s frantic appearance and stomping backward into a circle.

“Take him! Take him!” Maglor hissed, grabbing the twin nearest and recoiling to tuck him underneath his own cloak. When he righted and turned, the child standing behind him was hard to see.

Mahto wore no cloak and in a panic, snatched up whichever twin stood nearby and squeezed him tight as though it could make him smaller. He took one jolting step sideways hoping to escape in time, but just as abruptly abandoned flight – Maedhros already strode forth from the hut, and Harndur followed suit.

“What’s all this ruckus?” asked Harndur with humour in his voice. “Was there a snake? Little else will rattle this girl’s nerves.” Recomposed at the mere sight of her master, the horse came to nest her muzzle into his open hand remorsefully.

“Erm,” Mahto stammered, and shrunk from the attention that it brought to himself.

“Whose child is that?” asked Harndur, so unassuming it could be suspicious. 

“Mine,” said Maglor, leaning forward against his own urge to disappear. Before Harndur could discern the untruth, he added, “He was orphaned, alas. I’m raising him.”

“Ah,” said Harndur. His high gaze raised slightly higher and cooled to disinterest. “That is decent of you. Well!” He took only one step to reach the stirrup and swung himself up upon the saddle at once. “I leave you in good standing to see to your preparations, Fëanorians. Until we meet again.”

With nothing more he rode off.

When the bar fell across the gate, Maglor released the breath he held. He started to speak several times, the words dying on his tongue.

“He already knew they were here, brother.” Maedhros stared blankly at the closed gate like the last page of a book ended too soon. “The way he dissected this place with his gaze. He had to know.”

“Perhaps, but-” Maglor retrieved the twin hidden within his cloak, as though just then remembering he remained there. “He only saw one of them, I think. Perhaps… I mean, he did not so much as look twice. He might believe it is as simple as I said.” Maglor appraised the face of the boy in his arms; the strange light in his eyes was a ricochet of mixed heritage that no elf could mistake.

Even if Harndur had overlooked the second child that Maglor concealed, his indifference alone betrayed the significance of his observation; in times of peace, an elf would not waste the opportunity to lavish adoration upon a child, so rare and precious amongst their kind – and in times of strife, elves do not beget children at all. During their conference, Harndur shared that Finarfin came first to Balar and met with Gil-galad and Círdan there, who without doubt relayed that Eärendil’s sons had been seized at Sirion…

“You may be right,” said Maedhros. He came to Mahto who only cowered more at the softness of his lord’s tone, presenting the Half-elf in his arms like a peace offering (or a shield). “Come, child. Let us see what herbs we can find while daylight lasts, maybe some morels as well. I will cook a stew for us this eve.”

 

~tbc~